


Been one of those days (can I lean on you?)

by hazel_eyed_bi



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazel_eyed_bi/pseuds/hazel_eyed_bi
Summary: Sam and Bucky wrap up an exhausting, weeks-long mission, only to go back to their mutual pining while forced to share a bed at a crappy motel. Also, Nat knows what's up.





	Been one of those days (can I lean on you?)

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to my loves Nico and Cora for beta-ing and pushing me to finish this for weeks lmao
> 
> Title from Ben Platt's Bad Habit.

“_Toledo_. Out of all the places this could’ve led us to, we ended up in goddamn Toledo. In mid-_fucking_-December.” The windshield wipers struggle to keep the snowfall clear of Sam’s vision, dim street lights not being of much help either. “ ‘We need you back asap Cap, and don’t worry, there’s no snow scheduled in Ohio till next week’ _bullshit_, Fury.” He mutters under his breath in his best impersonation of the man, squinting towards the upcoming sign reading ‘Welcome to the city of Strongsville’.

“Spot on, Sammy.” Bucky slurs out next to him, before drifting back asleep. Sam smiles.

The last two weeks have been a neverending story. Following lead after lead, they’ve been to four states and seven cities all across the northeast. A simple, straightforward mission, Fury said. One weekend tops, to take down these arms dealers.

“Bullshit,” Sam mumbles again.

It all led them to some forgotten warehouse, of course, and it was absolutely jam-packed with these guys. It took the pair about an hour to take care of them all, and then another two to clean it up with the help of local police. They’d been awake for a good 16 hours before that (Bucky a bit longer since he’d done most of the driving), and Sam almost popped a vein when he got the call from Fury that they were needed back in D.C. the next morning. So he simply said ‘yes, sir’ and let Bucky continue patching him up. He and Nick have been at odds the past couple of months.

He stops at the first red light he’s seen in the last hour and rubs his face. Sam doesn’t know why he stopped; it’s well past midnight and there’s clearly no one else on the road. All he knows is that he can’t help his gaze from wandering to the man next to him. Bucky’s leg had suffered some damage that will probably fully heal in the next two to three days, while the cuts and bruises on his face are already looking better. Sam wonders if there are any more cuts and bruises Bucky didn’t mention that are also starting to heal, but stops himself from wondering _too much_ about where those bruises might be. He remembers having seen someone round-kick him in the lower back, and someone else elbow him in the chest pretty hard… He’s _sure_ that some bullets Bucky only nearly missed.

He turns his gaze up to Bucky’s face again. The strands of hair that had fallen out of his bun lay across his face, his head laying on his right arm against the car door. He looks peaceful. Nothing like when he was in cryo, Sam thinks. Like this, he actually looks like he’s resting. He looks content and young and hands-.

He stops his brain from finishing the word. It’s not that Bucky isn’t handsome, of course, he definitely is. Sam has even told him this once or twice like he compliments all his friends (or it could’ve been to throw him off, he can’t recall). But this is different. This he can’t do. This isn’t to tease Bucky or to banter; this is Sam in his own head during a moment of dark and quiet. This is pure and unfiltered and not to Bucky, but to himself. Sam can’t let his mind go there. Maybe it’s the two weeks of non-stop companionship, the proximity inside the car, the darkness of the strange town, or the snow that now seems to be floating instead of falling around them…

It’s then that Sam notices the light is already green. He doesn’t know how long it has been or how many times it has changed, but he knows his mind is somewhere else and he is in no condition to be on the road for five more hours. He makes up his mind to deal with Fury in the morning and turns at the next motel sign.

* * *

“Bucky… heyyy, wake up…” Sam’s sore and hushed voice lures Bucky back to consciousness, along with the tickling feeling of hair being removed from atop his forehead and nose. He hums in response. He slowly wills his eyes open and is met with a fuzzy image of Sam’s tired smile, a surprisingly small amount of inches away from his face. It takes Bucky aback for a hot second, but _gosh_ that smile. Sam flashes that grin, lazy but tender and still reaching his eyes, and, as with so many others of his, Bucky can never stop himself from smiling back. That’s Sam’s effect on him. He makes him smile more often than anyone else can. Not to mention that, though Sam is never one to hold off on showing affection, proximity like _this_ isn’t common, and it feels pretty nice.

The clock on the car system reads 2:46 am. There’s no way they’ve made it back to D.C. already, Bucky thinks, it’s only been two hours since they left Toledo. To his right stands a (weirdly triangular) white establishment, and peeking inside he can only see a counter and a couple of armchairs. Turning back a little, he spots the sign in front of it, reading “King’s Inn”. Yet it looks to be made for anyone but a king.

“Where are we?” Bucky mutters, rubbing his face and straightening up on his seat.

“Strongsville, still Ohio. I’m sorry, man, I couldn’t keep going.” 

Why Sam is sorry is something Bucky’s too tired to figure out. “‘S alright. We’ll deal with Fury in the morning.”

“Great minds,” is all Sam says, before they both quickly step out of the car and into the building.

The counter inside is nothing more than a rectangular hole in the wall, adorned with two potted plants and one of those tiny American flags. On the other side, in a folding chair, sits an old woman who definitely shouldn’t be awake so late, happily reading a newspaper from a few days ago and listening to old rock music on a small stereo. She pays no mind to the two men standing across from her, too enraptured with what she’s reading.

It’s only when Bucky softly knocks on the countertop that she finally looks up, flashing a warm smile that’s missing a few teeth.

“Hello, dears. Are you lost?” Her voice is high and shaky. Something about her tells Bucky that she has lived quite a life.

“Roadtrip. Sorry to bother you so late ma’am but we need a room.” Despite trying his best to hide it, Bucky can hear the tiredness peaking through Sam’s tone, as well as feel Sam instinctively leaning on him. More than usual, he notices, and marks it down to exhaustion.

The woman’s look turns empathetic. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, we’re all booked! There’s so many tired people trying to get home for the holidays, you know? And there’s only so many of them we can fit.”

Right. Hanukkah’s about to start, Christmas is a few days later, then Kwanzaa… Chasing around these dealers really made Bucky lose track of time, and he can only imagine how Sam feels. He probably wants to be home with his mother and sisters and the rest of the Wilson crew, drinking hot chocolate, playing with his nieces, insisting he’s seeing someone so they won’t berate him too much about not settling down (yes, that’s what they give _Captain America_ crap for); but no. Instead, he’s stuck with his partner in a rundown motel in the middle of Shitwhere, Ohio at 3 am. Bucky’s suspicions are confirmed when Sam lets his head drop on top of the counter. He puts a hand on Sam’s back and gives him a small rub. He’s tense.

“Are you sure there’s absolutely nothing ma’am?” Bucky insists. “We’ll take anything you have.” He gives the woman a soft smile and a head tilt that, back in the day, all the girls that he wasn’t interested in would swoon over.

“I’ll check one more time for you, dear.” The woman begins shuffling around all the clutter on the table that acts as a desk until she comes across a clipboard. “Well… we have one room, but it’s not in the best condition.” At this, Sam lifts his head in what Bucky can only assume to be hope. He moves his hand to Sam’s shoulder and squeezes.

“As long as it’s got a couple of warm beds," Bucky gives her another smile, "I’m sure we’ll be alright.” 

“Well… the bed _is_ warm.” The woman says sweetly, and Bucky feels she’s insinuating something, but decides not to pay it much mind. 

He turns to Sam, and only then notices how close together they’re standing, although that’s really nothing new for them. Sam’s eyes were already searching his expression with a questioning brow, to which Bucky only shrugs as he fumbles for his wallet. 

* * *

Sam has to give the woman some credit. ‘Not in the best condition’ is a pretty accurate descriptor of the room, and he knew this the moment he flipped the light switch and had to wait for a solid seven seconds for the lamps to flicker on. It does the job though. 

As he and Bucky stand side by side, borderline squeezed into the doorframe to try and escape the cold, another thing the woman said comes to mind; ‘the bed is warm’. As in, _one_ bed; the one queen-sized bed that stands against the far right wall, with an oddly-shaped mirror hanging above it.

His brain didn’t process that when she said it.

They have to share, Sam concludes once inside. There’s no couch, only a table and two chairs with stuffing coming out of them. He checks the closet; no extra sheets. 

He turns back to say something, he’s not sure what, something to lighten the vibe and hopefully makes Bucky laugh; only to find Bucky standing by the bed where he’s set his bag down, struggling to take off his jacket and running his hands through his now lose hair. Sam decides to forego the comment and turns his attention to the hardwood floors, walking past Bucky and to the bathroom. He doesn’t notice until he shuts the door behind him that he’s biting his lip and needs to take a breath.

The air he inhales is significantly colder in the bathroom. The small window above the mirror seems to let in a draft. There’s a steady drip coming from the sink, and the water refuses to heat up, so Sam skips the hot shower he felt he so desperately needs. ‘The bed is warm’ that lady said. Sam decides to trust her.

After changing into some sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt, he walks out to find Bucky already collapsed on the bed. He changed into something similar, except his t-shirt has short sleeves, and that old man once again forgot his arm is detachable. So Sam now has to deal with that freezing thing in the bed all night.

Except he doesn’t mind. He really doesn’t. Vibranium doesn’t get as cold as other metals anyway. It’s the thought of sharing a bed with his partner that has him looking for reasons to complain. This is all just too close to The Line. 

The Line was coined by Natasha a few months ago. She and Sam got absolutely wasted one night after one of few perfectly executed missions, and let’s just say that the following scientific discovery was made that night: a black widow has a way higher level of alcohol tolerance than a falcon. Sam ended up spilling his guts about these growing feelings for Bucky, about all the things he wants to do and say, but that something stands between them, and he can’t pinpoint what. A sense of professionalism? Fear of rejection? Of awkwardness? _Something_ that stops him from staring too much, from smiling too wide, from hugging too tight, from sitting too close. Whatever it is, he’s not crossing it. And so Nat suggested he just call it The Line. Not long after that, Sam passed out on the couch; he awoke the next morning to breakfast, orange juice, and painkillers sitting on the counter for him, with a note that read “Hope you and Nat had fun last night, she texted me this morning to make you this. Out for groceries :) - B.B.” That idiot always signs his notes, even though no one else lives there. This was Sam’s only thought before he dug in, paying no mind to the fuzzy memories of the previous night.

A hand on a shoulder is one thing. So is a pat (or rub) on the back. Maybe pushing Bucky’s hair away from his face earlier in the car was close to The Line, but it’s nowhere near as close as sleeping under the same ugly motel bed covers is. Although Sam has to admit that they are pretty warm... 

Quickly and steadily, like the ocean retreating from the shore before a big wave, every fear of awkwardness and unease slips away. The warmth and comfort engulf him in an embrace he hasn’t felt in much too long (or at least it feels like it after a too-long day). He nestles into his pillow, laying on his right side, back to back with his partner. Gosh, Sam envies Bucky’s ability to fall asleep so fast. You would think a man who was frozen for so long would have more trouble, but he’s able to go under in as little as five minutes when he’s tired enough.

Sam always stays awake for 20 minutes or so after going to bed, and despite the exhaustion, this night is no different. He’d usually dig into his current book, which is probably in his backpack, but neither his eyes nor his brain is in a place to do so. He’d get a headache. So he settles for watching the snowfall out the window while drifting off. 

Sometime later, he’s not sure how much, with his eyes already closed but still half-conscious, Sam feels shuffling. Then an unnaturally heavy and (as he predicted) slightly cold limb settles around his waist, pulling him closer. Bucky’s chest fits snugly against his back, and his long hair and hot breath tickles the back of Sam’s neck a bit before he buries his face into it, and goes still. Sam can’t help a small smile, letting this unfamiliar (but not at all unpleasant) peacefulness have its way with him and take him into a deep slumber.

* * *

It’s just as easy for Bucky to be awoken as it is for him to fall asleep. Probably the army conditioning. The faintest thing can snap his eyes open, like Sam closing the front door of their apartment when leaving for his morning run, or their upstairs neighbor’s cat that’s basically his by now from all the time she spends meowing for attention on his fire escape; or in this case, the distant beeping of a heavy-duty snowplow at 9 am. 

Still, despite this curse, he loves sleeping, and can always doze off again until the next sound happens by. But not this time. Not this morning.

This morning there’s a response to his waking jolt. It’s movement, something stirring beside him, and then a deep, quiet hum, before the _something_ relaxes once again, moving its hand from Bucky’s abdomen to just over his heart. This is one Samuel Thomas Wilson, sleeping soundly, cuddled into Bucky’s side. His head lays just at the crook of Bucky’s neck, with Bucky's right arm under and around him. 

Bucky freezes (no pun intended), his eyes fixed on what little he can see of Sam’s face, from how close it is. A white glare shines in through the window, only partly covered by the patterned curtains, and a leafless tree sways just outside. The air is cool and slightly stuffy in his nose, the covers are heavy and warm and not all that soft. A dog barks, a car drives by, and Sam sleeps in his arms. 

He’s scared to breathe now, to move, afraid he’ll wake him. Sam waking up means this moment would end, and Bucky doesn’t want it to. 

Sam, who always lets him pick what historical documentary to watch on movie night, because he knows Bucky wants to catch up on all he missed; Sam, who teases him for whatever ice cream flavor or candy he discovers and becomes obsessed with, but will then buy some of it for home; Sam, whose laugh, wit, eyes, whose very existence can bring a smile to his face; Bucky’s now sharing a perfect morning in bed with him, and that’s one thought he never could’ve imagined passing through his head. He brings his left hand up to hold Sam’s over his heart.

He still can’t believe it.

All those nights in, all those long stakeouts turned dull, all those afternoons on a park bench, he longed- he _yearned_ to hold Sam like this. It ached inside him like a dam about to crack open. But he’d convinced himself long ago that their relationship- their _partnership_ wouldn’t go anywhere past a hug when they needed one.

And yet there he is, in _bed_, with _Sam_. It’s been a good ten minutes now, and he’s still transfixed.

There's always something about Sam that could send Bucky into a trance; how free he looks when he flies around during a sunset, his unmoving crossed-arms stance when dealing with official Cap business, his cute gap-toothed smile during a laughing fit; more than once Bucky has been caught staring at Sam, luckily never by Sam himself, as far as he knows. Natasha approached him once, a little over a year ago, back when the pair still pretended to not get along. It was during their bi-weekly training with the other Avengers. Sam and Peter were sparring, and Nat seemed to notice how closely Bucky was studying Sam, unknowingly biting his lower lip. So she went to stand next to him against a wall and said: “Sam Wilson. Heck of a man, huh?”. Bucky’s defenses immediately sprung up and he began to list all the things he ‘can’t stand’ about the guy; his constant sass, how competitive he could get, how righteous he was, the way he fought, his cocky smile, his stupid brown eyes; and by then he was staring again. “Oh yeah. It’s definitely his eyes,” Nat mocked beside him, earning herself a glare before she smirked and walked away.

Bucky smiles at the memory. Gosh, he loves those stupid brown eyes.

“You know your hand is cold as hell, right?”

It’s then that Bucky realizes he’s staring into those eyes, which are now open. He has now been caught staring _once_ by Sam himself. But he’s already in the most vulnerable position he’s ever found himself in with the man, so what can he do?

He snaps himself out of it. “What?” 

Sam simply shakes his head in a dismissive manner with a smile and a slow blink, not moving from his spot on Bucky’s shoulder. “How long you been awake?” he asks.

“Like 20 minutes.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Staring at me like a creep?” He stretches a bit, and Bucky has no choice but to let go of his hand, so he puts his own behind his head. “You’re not a morning person though, Barnes.” He says, settling again, this time with his arm completely wrapped around Bucky’s torso.

“Usually.”

Sam cuddles deeper into Bucky and feels himself drifting off again. “So what’s different?” he croaks out.

A few seconds pass before Bucky replies. “You’re here with me.” The sheer tenderness of the statement wakes Sam right up, like part of his brain hadn’t powered up until now. He stares up at Bucky, loosens his grip around his torso, and chuckles. He chuckles again, letting his head drop on Bucky’s chest, and the chuckle turns into a full-blown cackle. He feels Bucky rubbing his arm, hears him laughing along in confusion while asking, “What? What is it?”

Sam leans away from Bucky to lay more on his back, on top of Bucky’s right arm, staring up at the ceiling. “Oh you smooth fucker...” he says, still laughing.

“What? I’m serious, Sam.” Bucky playfully pulls Sam back into him with that same arm, maybe a bit faster and harder than he intended to. Their noses bump into each other, and their laughter comes to a full stop. It feels like the whole world does too.

Sam had never seen Bucky's eyes this close and is just now noticing the flecks of silver amongst all the blue, like an icy lake or striped clouds against a midday sky. His breath hitches in his throat.

Bucky's gaze travels all over Sam's face, from his eyes and the gentle expression in them, to his lips and the softness Bucky imagines he'd feel if he were to touch them. His heart boils in his chest.

As much as he tries, he can't stop his metal hand from reaching up to Sam's face. His thumb strokes Sam's bottom lip, Bucky's artificial nerves proving him right: they were _very_ soft. 

The contact sends Sam's heart racing faster than anything. Faster than when running, faster than when being shot at; this isn't normal, he thinks. So he needs to know he's not the only one. His brings his hand to Bucky's chest; it's thumping just as heavily as his. It's also very toned, he notes.

After a few seconds of nothing but longing gazes and deafening silence, it's Bucky that gives in. He kisses Sam, and their world is reborn. All the back and forth, the uncertainty, the repression; weeks, months, what feels like ages of stolen glances and touches; moments of should we, can we, could we, and a million more questions and insecurities rushing through their heads; it all vanishes in this one kiss.

It's not an eager kiss or a desperate one. It's tender and slow, and it feels like taking a breath after coming out from underwater. Bucky flips onto his back, bringing Sam to lay half on top of him, and Sam somehow deepens the kiss. His lips feel even softer against Bucky's. He can only press Sam against him as much as possible, while Sam's hands explore his hair, face, and neck like he's clinging for his life. It lasts for as long as any good kiss _can_ last, both of them relishing the proximity they've been craving for so long. They've been needing this from each other as much as their lungs need air.

As they part, Sam struggles to catch his breath, attempting to hide a smile he can't control. He doesn't dare look at Bucky, who can't _stop_ looking at him. Instead, he wraps his arms around Bucky's neck and lays his head down on the pillow, neck to his. Bucky completely wraps his arms around Sam, grinning at the ceiling in disbelief. They lie there in an endless, soundless embrace for as long as it takes their brains to catch up with their pounding hearts.

Bucky breaks the silence with a deep breath. “I’m done, Sam," he exhales, squeezing Sam's torso.

Sam's stomach churns. “Done what?” 

“Pretending I don’t want.. _something_ like this."

Sam pushes himself up and lays back down at Bucky's side, his head propped up on one hand, while the other one rests tentatively on Bucky's chest. 

Bucky intertwines Sam's fingers with his metal ones. "With you." His voice betrays him, only allowing the words to come out at a whisper. His eyes are pleading and adoring and hold a million words though: I want this, it feels right, I need more of you, I belong with you, I love you.

And Sam hears him loud and clear. He puts his forehead to Bucky's and brushes the words "Me too, baby," against his lips. He places a soft peck on them, before trailing his way kiss after kiss along Bucky's jaw, until he buries his face at the crook of his neck. 

After another while of trying to convince themselves this is all really happening, Bucky starts placing soft kisses on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey," Sam mumbles into Bucky's neck, as cool and casual as ever.

Bucky pauses in between kisses. "Hey, yourself." He keeps going until Sam pushes himself away and sits up. Bucky's hands linger and reach and catch Sam's with a squeeze, as if asking it not to go too far. Sam tugs at him to sit up too, and Bucky raises his eyebrows in question.

"Let's go home, man."

Bucky smiles wide and lets both his arms plop down on the bed. "**Yes** please, I'm sick of the road."

Sam flips over him and out of the bed. "Too bad, ‘cause you're driving."

"Oh I'M- no, yeah that's fair."

Unlike the time spent in the car during the previous weeks, the ride back to DC is overwhelmingly delightful. Sam blasts the radio at full volume and sings along. Surprisingly well, actually. Bucky glances over with a smile whenever he can. Sam occasionally takes his hand and kisses the back of it (any time a love song comes on, though Sam thinks Bucky doesn’t notice), then promptly reminds him to put both hands on the wheel. They take advantage of every single red light they encounter to share a dopey grin and a kiss. They say whatever dumb thing they come up with just to hear the other one laugh. It’s heaven in an Audi.

About an hour into the drive, there’s a phone call from Natasha, who’s ecstatic about the news and to have a few teammates pay up. She’s actually calling on behalf of Fury though. It’s 1 pm and they are both in deep shit.


End file.
